I Will Not Say Goodbye
by i've just got one
Summary: It's been six months since Reichenbach, and John refuses to move on. Songfic set to Danny Gokey's "I Will Not Say Goodbye". Johnlock if you squint, turn your slash goggles to high, and read this through a telescope.


__**AUTHOR'S NOTE: I was listening to this song one night and realized, "Oh my god, why is there not a Sherlock songfic for this? MUST WRITE ONE." Of course, now I can't listen to the song without my heart being torn out and thrown out the window, but...oh well.**

**DISCLAIMER: I own neither Sherlock Holmes nor the song "I Will Not Say Goodbye". The former belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the latter, to Danny Gokey.**

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><p><em>Sometimes the road just ends<em>  
><em>It changes everything you've been<em>  
><em>And all that's left to be<em>  
><em>Is empty, broken, lonely, hopin'<em>

John paused outside the gates of the cemetery, shifting his weight to give his leg a bit of a rest and absentmindedly rubbing his wounded shoulder. Glancing through the gate, he saw a couple of people at the far end, but the presence of others no longer bothered him, as it had done during those first few weeks when he would break down crying at Sherlock's grave whenever he visited. Maybe that was because he didn't really notice the presence of other people anymore.

There wasn't really anyone whose presence was worth noticing.

_I'm supposed to be strong_  
><em>I'm supposed to find a way to carry on<em>

Squaring his shoulders, John limped into the cemetery, feeling heavy and tired, as always. He didn't have much stamina these days, which should have irritated him - he was a soldier, he should have been stronger than this - but didn't. What was the point of having a lot of energy and endurance if there was no Sherlock to lead him on mad chases through London's alleyways?

_I don't wanna feel better_  
><em>I don't wanna not remember<em>  
><em>I will always see your face<em>  
><em>In the shadows of this haunted place<em>  
><em>I will laugh, I will cry<em>  
><em>Shake my fist at the sky<em>  
><em>But I will not say goodbye<em>

Ella kept urging him to let it go. It had been six months since the Fall, and John stolidly refused to move on, as it were. Ella told him that he would feel better for it, that things would be easier once he accepted the fact that Sherlock was gone and continued on with his own life.

She made it sound as though forgetting Sherlock was something John could control. He couldn't. Even if he could, he wouldn't want to. He didn't want to forget his best friend. Forgetting him would be like losing him all over again.

Regardless, forgetting wasn't an option. There was a part of John's mind that would forever be dedicated to Sherlock, just as there was a place in his heart that only the consulting detective would ever occupy.

_They keep saying time will heal_  
><em>But the pain just gets more real<em>  
><em>The sun comes up each day<em>  
><em>Finds me waiting, fading, hating, praying<em>

All his life, John had been told that the sadness that accompanies a personal loss didn't last forever. That, eventually, the pain would diminish, healing the way time heals a cut or a bruise.

John now knew that to be a fallacy. Because the pain hadn't diminished. Far from it. Really, the pain grew worse. Every day when he woke up (or got up, rather, as sleep was a rare experience these days) to an empty flat, a Sherlock-less flat...It was as though another little piece of him, of his heart, crumbled.

Whenever he went to bed, he would stare at the ceiling and pray for Sherlock to come back. Pray that somehow, _somehow_, Sherlock would be returned to him.

And every morning brought with it the reminder that his prayers would never be answered.

_If I can keep on holding on_  
><em>Maybe I can keep my heart from knowing that you're gone<em>

He knew he was in denial. Knew that he probably needed more help than even Ella could provide him with. But he didn't care. If it was a choice between denial and letting himself realize that was really gone, he'd take the denial.

That was why, every morning, he found himself making a cup of coffee - black, two sugars - and setting it on the table, letting it sit there until dinner time and then sighing as he poured it down the sink. That was why he kept everything in Sherlock's room exactly the way it was, knowing the detective would raise Cain if he returned to find his things had been moved about. That was why he made sure Sherlock's laptop remained charged and why he kept small supplies of nicotine patches all around the flat.

He told himself it was because he wanted everything to be ready, just in case Sherlock came back, but in reality, he just couldn't let himself face the truth.

_I don't wanna feel better_  
><em>I don't wanna not remember<em>  
><em>I will always see your face<em>  
><em>In the shadows of this haunted place<em>  
><em>I will laugh, I will cry<em>  
><em>Shake my fist at the sky<em>  
><em>But I will not say goodbye<em>

One day John was sitting in Sherlock's chair, paging through a medical journal without really focusing on any of the words, when he heard footsteps on the stairs. For a moment, his heart stopped. Could it finally be him...?

No. A second later, Mrs. Hudson came in, carrying a bag of groceries and commenting on how John hadn't gone shopping in almost a month. "I thought you'd be almost out of food, love," she said cheerfully, "so I ran down to the shops and got you a few things."

John managed to give her a small smile. "Thank you. You can put it on my rent."

"Oh, that's fine, dear, no need to bother with that." She bustled around the kitchen putting the food away. "Would you like me to make you a cuppa?"

"No thanks. After all, you're not my housekeeper." He gave a half-hearted chuckle, but Mrs. Hudson didn't look convinced.

Placing a hand on his shoulder, she said, "John, dear, it's no good just sitting around moping, it's not going to bring him back. You need to move on."

"I can't."

"I know it's hard, but-"

"No, you don't understand. I _can't_. Moving on means accepting what happened. And what happened...just isn't acceptable." He looked up at her. "Thank you for the shopping. And please put it on my rent, I wouldn't feel right otherwise."

She gave him a sad smile. "Whatever you want, dear."

_I will curse, I will pray_  
><em>I'll relive everyday<em>  
><em>I will shoulder the blame<em>  
><em>I'll shout out your name<em>  
><em>I will laugh, I will cry<em>  
><em>Shake my fist at the sky<em>  
><em>But I will not say<em>  
><em>Will not say goodbye<em>  
><em>Will not say goodbye<em>

As Mrs. Hudson left, John sighed and stood, moving to the table where he always set the cup of coffee meant for Sherlock. He stared down at it for a moment before picking it up and hurling it across the room, where it shattered against the wall and fell to the floor in a rain of coffee and shards of glass. "Damn it, Sherlock!" he yelled at the empty air, not caring if Mrs. Hudson hear him. "Damn it, why the hell would you do something so _stupid_?"

He could almost see Sherlock's reaction to being accused of doing something stupid. Hear his indignant huff as he stated that he never did anything stupid. See his perturbed, slightly irritated face as John merely looked at him skeptically and said, "Of course you don't."

The mental image was so vivid that John couldn't help chuckling a little. The chuckle turned into a slightly hysterical laugh, which then became a strangled sob. He slid down onto the floor against the table and buried his face in his hands, taking deep breaths in an attempt to regain control of himself. He tried to focus on something positive, something happy, but that didn't help, because all of his happiest memories were of Sherlock. Laughing together in the hallway after chasing that taxi. Watching Sherlock at work, rattling off deduction after deduction like it was nothing. Laughing, again, in Buckingham Palace, much to Mycroft's annoyance. Nights spent working, talking, sometimes arguing...

John would have given anything to have all that back.

Now those memories were all he had.

And he was never letting go of them.

He was never saying goodbye.


End file.
